by Ernest Hogan
As his attention wavered, the girl removed her mouth from his organ, looked up and said, "Is there something wrong, Smokey, hon?" Melting purple makeup ran down her face.
"No, dear," Smokey said, smearing a purple streak on her cheek with his thumb. "Everything's wonderful. I just want it to last."
She smiled and resumed sucking.
Tezcatlipoca/Smokey was bothered by one thing: Communication between the part of him in the machinery and the part of him in the body was too slow. There had to be a way to speed it up.
*
Phoebe was getting sleepy as the street began to spin under her feet. It always happened when she mixed Fun with alcohol. It made her feel so giddy and delighted that she didn't care that it usually meant she was about to pass out and miss out on something. She didn't even care if she had seen some sleazy redhead sucking Smokey off. It might have just been her imagination.
But she didn't want to miss Smokey doing his anti-Fun spot – doing an anti-Fun spot meant that you were on your way to being a big star. It was so sumato.
The director had long grey hair all the way down to her undercupage. She handed Smokey a Fun stick. "Here kid, this'll help get you in the mood."
Tezcatlipoca sucked it down like an old pro. A makeup boy ran over and wiped the ash off his lips.
"Okay," said the director. "Let's roll this thing."
Tezcatlipoca flashed his killer smile, then melted to a serious, sincere look. "Dead Daze or live days, one thing's for sure, if you want to have fun, stay away from Fun."
"How sumato," Phoebe said as she blacked out while the director and the entire crew flicked on Fun sticks.
*
Ralph was actually a relieved to see the edges of the vast El Lay sprawl appearing at the horizon. He hadn't flown in a long time, and it had been ages since he'd been stuck with a window seat. Somehow he found the nerve to look out, and was even more horrified.
He had forgotten about the massive stretches of the Sonoran desert, so big and empty, even with the occasional signs of civilization – like roads, tiny structures, and pools of smog. Living in Phoenix, the desert fades away and becomes more an idea than reality. The heat was a filter to keep the outside world at bay. Out here, it was a hard look at the naked planet, with all signs of human accomplishment rendered ant-size. It was more like a colonized Mars than an overpopulated Earth. This was a place that would give birth to beings like Tezcatlipoca long before humans would be dreamed of.
Any sign of civilization would be welcome after that, even El Lay.
Then his fear of California and El Lay kicked in again.
He needed something to distract him. Checking the screen over his traytable he saw that an old movie favorite of his was on: Repo Man. He called it up, and it was perfect: The Eighties – a time of innocence, punk rock, the Cold War, low-tech drugs, and the numbing alienation of pre-information superhighway communications technology. It brought back nostalgic feelings of his childhood, back when he could dream of an El Lay where the strangest thing you might encounter would be dead radioactive space creatures in the trunk of an old car.
*
For the longest time, Xochitl ran through the streets of El Lay. She wasn't sure if it was a dream. It didn't look real, it didn't look right. The streets were semi-deserted by Mexico City standards, and maybe even Los Angeles standards, she didn't really know – but it seemed staged, like they were about to shoot a movie or a video.
The few people she saw only confirmed this suspicion, like the eight foot tall woman dressed as a black widow spider, complete with extra limbs and a spherical abdomen emblazoned with a red hourglass; she was helping a man dressed as a matador make his way to the gutter so he could vomit, while tiny people who did not seem to be children dressed as walking fuzzballs, pointed and laughed. A man painted ash grey with arrows sticking out all over his body waved at Xochitl. A group sporting glittering wings, manes, and tails danced to some barbaric electronic music. All she could decipher from the lyrics was the word "Tezcatlipoca."
For a moment she thought she recognized the lead singer as Beto, but quickly dismissed the idea.
*
Reporter: Well, how are things going so far, security-wise?
Joint National Guard/Police Public Relations Officer: Pretty good, actually. We're well organized, and the public has been cooperative, and unfortunate incidents have been down to a minimum.
Reporter: So everything's sumato?
Joint National Guard/Police Public Relations Officer: Not exactly, I'm afraid. There is an individual going by the name Smokey Espejo who's been causing incidents that have gotten dangerously close to needing intervention.
Reporter: Isn't he the musician that killed the gang member?
Joint National Guard/Police Public Relations Officer: Yes.
Reporter: And has he broken any laws so far?
Joint National Guard/Police Public Relations Officer: No. Even the killing was legal – a law that the law enforcement community is sworn to uphold, but I must say that the law enforcement community strongly discourages citizens taking the law into their own hands and killing, or even resisting criminals. This kind of behavior – like the irresponsible behavior of Smokey Espejo – is dangerous and should be avoided at all costs.
Reporter: Are you condemning Smokey?
Joint National Guard/Police Public Relations Officer: Well, not exactly. The law enforcement community is simply advising the public that activities surrounding Smokey Espejo are dangerous, and they should avoid getting involved.
Reporter: But everybody loves Smokey. He's so sumato.
Joint National Guard/Police Public Relations Officer: The public often wants things that aren't good for it. That's what the law enforcement community is here for.
*
Tezcatlipoca was amused by the police public relations byte. These people didn't know that he was the one who whispered dangerous ideas into their ears, and he didn't care what was good for them. Tezcatlipoca only cared about what was good for Tezcatlipoca, like any trickster.
Worrying about what was good for everybody else was his brother Quetzalcóatl's job, and he was nowhere to be found; not ever since he had gotten stinking drunk, acted like a man for the first time in his life, then fled the country on that raft of snakes. Ever since then, it had been a Tezcatlipoca, tricksterized world. The aliens may have been able to interrupt things for a while, but he was back now, and nothing was going to stop him.
He relayed the byte to Smokey, who enjoyed it too, even though he waited to play it until after he got through telling Lobo Baker that he wanted to do a nanodisc with Los Tricksters.
*
"I don't know," said Lobo Baker, who was bothered by the way Smokey kept looking at his phone. "I'm not sure if we can incorporate your drumming into the band."
"I have a new vision, we can create a new kind of music that can change the world," said Smokey, not liking that Lobo was being uncooperative, but enjoying that he was making the afro/latio uncomfortable.
"You want to collaborate." Lobo shook his head, and smirked, twisting his fuzzy mustache. "Not just sit in . . . Do you compose?"
"Of course," said Smokey. "I can do anything."
"Can you read music?" asked Lobo.
That stopped Smokey for a few seconds. He looked at his phone again, and said, "I can now."
Lobo was irritated, but interested.
*
Ralph had to fast forward to the end of Repo Man as the plane approached LAX. Seeing the glowing car on the screen fly off into the nighttime El Lay sky somehow made his own flight through the daytime, smoggy El Lay sky seem somewhat safe and sane.
The city slowly became visible through the smog, materializing and rising up like some monstrous apparition. It was so big, it seemed to wrap around the planet. It seemed to be growing, like cancer. It consumed the plane and all its passengers as the plane slid into the airport.
Ralph felt ill.
Rather than rushing to
baggage claim after deplaning, he stumbled to the nearest men's room and threw up.
*
And wouldn't you know it, recombozos and recombozoettes? Something xau-xau is happening, sending out waves of fear and loathing that are reaching simply fabulous El Lay, and it may be the reason you may not be feeling a perfect five hundred percent sumato this Dead Daze. What's the epicenter of this diabolicalness? Why Washington, D.C. – and definitely not A.C. – of course. Seems that there was some kind of violent activity at the White House this fine morning. An as-of-yet unidentified United States of Norteamerica citizen was forcibly ejected from the Jones man's office and place of residence. It was an ugly scene, as you can see on this vizbyte – the power seems to be turned off on those prods, and that's pure, unadulterated brute force they are putting down there. And yes, that's real human blood you see splashing on the White House lawn.
And the Gov has gone stark, raving mysterioso about this. People's president, America's first black president, Mr. Jones is doing the old Stonewall Samba all over everybody's net. Not just no comment – but nothing at all! The White House isn't taking anybody's calls! It's Cover-Up City! And what if somebody wants to declare war or – Xanadu forbid – we get a sequel to last year's Dead Daze riots here in El Lay?
Looks like we've been had again, my peoples. When are they going to learn that they have to let us put the zen back into citizen?
Well, enough of the deep, dank, ugly world of politics – L.A. Sound is about music, so let's have some. A new, mondorecording of a fabulous performance by a young man who's fast becoming the unofficial king of this Dead Daze: Smokey Espejo! Government guys have their doubts about him, and have been expressing it, but the people love Smokey – he's the beautiful boy who we all want for our new toy. And here he is . . .
*
They can have doubts about me, thought Tezcatlipoca, but they can't deny me.
*
Xochitl was dizzy. She also realized she was hungry, ravenous. She didn't remember when she last ate. Her mouth was dry and her stomach was growling.
A little boy dressed as a Roman gladiator passed by. He was sucking on a sweet soft drink, and munching on a candy skull.
Xochitl pried her lips apart with her tongue and tried to talk, but her vocal apparatus wasn't cooperating.
The gladiator boy continued on his way, his sweating drink dripping down his hand, down to the grimy sidewalk that was not as badly chipped at those in Mexico City. The drink had left a trail of wet spots. She followed.
At the end of the trail was a street vendor wearing a glittering purple cloak and an oversized skull mask/helmet that was overdecorated with tiny, flashing, multicolored lights. He was standing behind a table full of fist-sized candy skulls. Next to him was soft drink tank, with a supply of cups, lids, and straws attached.
She picked up a skull. It was very much like a cheap traditional, Mexican Day of the Dead skull, except for the digital timer on the forehead that was counting backwards from a quadruple-digit number.
"They're all counting down to zero," said the skeleton vendor, "as are we all."
"I'm starving," said Xochitl. "I'll take three, and a large drink."
"Be sure to eat them before they reach zero," the vendor said while handing her another two. "Marzipan looks a lot like plastic explosives – and newer ones even taste sweet. They could be candy . . . could be time bombs."
He took a cup and filled it. The carbonated drink was as black as motor oil. Xochitl made a face, and hesitated before sipping from the straw.
"Could be Cola Negra, Ecuador's hot new soft drink . . ." said the vendor while running the credit card Xochitl had borrowed from her father through his credit-register, "Could be some kind of poison."
"No guarantees?" Xochitl asked as she took a sip. It was sweet, thick and heavy.
"Not in this life . . . Or death."
Xochitl walked past a child who was dressed as a jaguar and was gnawing on a chocolate replica of a human femur. The sight made her mouth water. She bit into one of her skulls.
*
Ralph took a trakbus from LAX to Hollywood Boulevard, then realized that he didn't know which direction Beto's conapt was. He would have to ask someone, only all the people on this street were making him long for the sunburnt, tattooed characters with street-legal assault rifles strapped to their backs that hung around Phoenix streets. These El Lay street creatures all looked dressed from a wild party from a couple of nights ago. Now that the adrenaline and artificial stimulants were wearing off, they were cruising around like starving vampires, looking for that sacred spoonful of whatever would get them through another eight-hour binge period.
"You look lost," someone said.
The someone was dressed as an orange cyclopean gorilla and had a soft, grandmotherly voice.
"Uh." Ralph stared into the gorilla's single, plastic, bloodshot eyeball. "I'm looking for a friend's place. It's supposed to be near Hollywood and Vine, but I'm not sure which way . . ."
The gorilla grabbed the notetab out of Ralph's hand, then pointed with a red, transparent claw, and said, "That way."
Ralph gasped. By the time he got the breath to say "Thank you," the gorilla had disappeared.
*
Some hands reached under the table and grabbed Phoebe. Olvidadoids, looking really sumato in their blue and black outfits and makeup, pulled her to her feet. Smokey blew her a kiss, and the Olvidadoids pushed her into a beautiful gold limo that soared away. The soaring became so intense that it turned into falling, then things got all melty and blurry and faded out . . .
*
At Beto's conapt, Lila grew weary of dancing to the music leaking in through the window. She walked over to Zen, who was thumbing through one of Beto's books on Aztec art and gave him a gentle kick.
"I'm bored," she said.
"So what am I supposed to do about it?" asked Zen, tossing aside the book.
Chucho looked up from his watchscreen, where he was lost in the Violence Channel, and said, "I'm bored, too. And hungry."
"Yeah," said Lila. "I'm hungry, too."
"So let's order pizza," suggested Zen.
9. FUN, FUN, FUN
"In the name of Papa Legba and all the Loas," said Zobop. "This guy is all over the mediasphere, all at once. Our poor little system is having a hard time keeping up with him."
Tan Tien leaned over, squeezed Zobop's shoulder, and kissed his neck. "Looks like this is more than any mere 'guy.'"
"What then?" Zobop caressed her cheek without taking his eyes of the screen.
"Perhaps some kind of spirit?"
"Or loa?"
"Or a god?"
He smiled a devilish smile. "Maybe artificial intelligence?"
She tweaked his earlobe. "What's the difference?"
"Does anybody know?" He took her small pale face in his large dark hand, and kissed her with great passion.
The infosystem buzzed and flashed a few alarms.
"Better plug in some back ups," she whispered in his ear, "just in case."
"Speaking of back ups," he said, picking up a pair of high-tech sunglasses, "I'll wear these."
Tan Tien understood, and keyed in the setup.
*
Suddenly Tezcatlipoca felt something strange. Something was reaching through the mediasphere, tracking him. He didn't like that.
Neither did Smokey.
Tezcatlipoca decided to watch out for this thing that was watching him, as well as flash Smokey anything he needed to know, keep track of their mediasphere coverage, and handle the business negotiation. He could do it all, all at once; after all, he was a god.
*
"How's the visual feed off the sunglasses going, babe?" asked Zobop as he walked down the street toward Beto's conapt.
"Beautiful," said Tan Tien, back at their office. "I see everything you see."
And since it was Dead Daze, they were seeing a lot.
*
Xochitl swallowed the last bit of the last can
dy skull just before she had reached Beto's conapt. The digital clock said zero just as she threw it away. She was hoping that the sugar would pull her through for the next few hours. Since the sun had been up a while, more and more costumed figures were showing up on the streets, the post-dawn lull now over.
Two Olvidadoids answered the door. They were armed with Bic disposables and with people prods. They weren't listening to any stories.
"I'm Xochitl, Beto's my friend," she said and got zapped in the gut.
"We don't know no Beto," said one of the Olvidadoids.
She was stumbling away, confused, when an arm snaked around her neck, locking into a carotid choke-hold.
"You must be the Mexican bitch," said Caldonia. "I can tell by the accent. What do you want with Beto?"
The assailant loosened the hold just enough for Xochitl to gasp, "You're Beto's girlfriend?"
"Don't make me puke," Caldonia said, releasing Xochitl and turning her around. "Chingow, you look xau-xau."
Xochitl was in the same clothes she had left Mexico City in, and her hair was badly matted. Caldonia, on the other hand, was in a gleaming skin-tight leather suit, with her scalp shined to match.
"I have to hurry," Xochitl said. "My god-simulating program. Beto cloned it. Something happened. He's changed!"
"Uh-oh," said Caldonia, "I think we have to compare notes."
*
Tezcatlipoca could see the Olvidadoids in Beto's conapt through the system there. Doing it without telling them was the trickster thing to do. They weren't doing badly. They weren't too diligent about reporting, but then they weren't used to this sort of work, and apparently Nacho Joyce had not been the kind of leader who liked to be bothered about a lot of things – too much information had overwhelmed him, made him irritable. The gang would have to be retrained. They were now working for a god for whom no amount of information was ever enough.
*
"That wasn't the pizza guy?" asked Zen.
"Naw," said Chucho. "It was some real raggy latio woman – she couldn't even talk English so good, you know?"
